by Tamara Lush
“I understand, your honor. Thank you for your understanding on this matter.”
“Good deal. Now let’s get this media circus out of here. Hopefully, you won’t wrestle any reptiles anytime soon, Princess Grimmelshausen, because I can’t handle more of this in my court. I’ll give everyone a fifteen-minute break, and then we’ll resume our regular docket.”
A bailiff shuffles into the middle of the room. “All rise.”
The judge bangs the gavel, and I watch as everyone else hauls themselves to their feet and the judge slips out a back door. One of the prisoners blows me a kiss, and I turn to Tate.
“Oh, thank God,” I whisper, wanting nothing more than to hug him. But I know I can’t touch him, not here in public. He squeezes my arm and leans into my ear.
“We did it. Now let’s get you home,” he murmurs. The words are innocent, but the meaning makes my core warm and bloom with desire. I know exactly what Tate wants when we get home. A mental image of him between my legs flashes through my mind, and I feel a warmth creep across my face.
“And thank you, Mr. Trevi,” I say primly, shaking the other attorney’s hand.
Unlike the last hearing, two courthouse officers have been assigned to us. They’re waiting to escort us out and downstairs, where I’m expected to make a statement. The media’s better behaved today, probably because the court clerk put strict rules in place prior to the hearing. Most of the reporters and photographers are downstairs clustered around a makeshift mic stand, awaiting my presence.
I take a deep breath and look into Tate’s whiskey-colored eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”
He nods and sticks close to me as we leave the courtroom and walk outside. There are at least fifty cameras waiting for us as we push our way through the courthouse revolving door.
“Jesus, isn’t there anything else going on in the world?” I mutter.
Tate chuckles.
I hold my head high as I walk toward the mic stand, which sits at the bottom of the steps. I’m flanked by Tate and Trevi. A few stray reporters dash closer in an attempt to get a better shot of me walking, but I ignore them. The officers scowl.
At the mic stand, I pause, and smile tightly as the crush of cameras looms closer. “Thank you all for being here today. I have a short statement, and I’ll make it in English first, then in French for the media in my home country of Montignac. I am pleased the judge ruled to dismiss my case. I want to thank my attorney, Mr. Trevi, and my friend, attorney Tate Hastings, for their support. I look forward to community service on the beautiful island of Paradise Beach, and to helping the region’s environment. Because of what I’ve learned about the wildlife here, I’ll be donating a hundred thousand dollars to the Island Turtle Sanctuary, in addition to the court-mandated fine. Coastal development, along with erosion from storms and rising sea levels have all affected the sea turtle habitat here in Florida. I am eager to help the turtles, and all animals, to thrive on Paradise Beach. Now, for my statement in French.”
With a steady voice, I repeat the words in my native language, then follow up quickly in English: “I will not be taking questions. Thank you for coming.”
I nod at Tate, who is staring at me with a mixture of adoration and astonishment. He’s never seen me in action with the press or in any royal capacity. He’s only seen the messy, vacation-mode, faxu-criminal me. I grin, feeling triumphant.
“Damn,” he murmurs. “That was hot.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
And then the verbal assault begins.
“Princess, what have you told Jacques?”
“Are you going to marry him?”
“Are you staying on Paradise Beach permanently, even after your court-ordered community service?”
With the two officers as a buffer, Tate and I walk to our car. Today, his brother Remy is driving the SUV, and is waiting at the curb not far from the news conference area. We’d planned today out with the precision of a battle, knowing we’d be faced with shouted queries and intrusive camera lenses.
We ignore the questions, and the officers push the reporters back and clear a path.
“Princess, does your mother know about the wildlife assault charge?”
I want to roll my eyes and laugh. I’ve gotten no fewer than twenty incensed emails from mother, and I’ve ignored them all. She thinks this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever been part of. And for once, I agree with her.
“Princess, what does the royal family think about your romantic relationship with Tate Hastings, your attorney?”
A chill goes down my spine. After you are exposed to the tabloids, you begin to understand the ebb and flow of news. How reporters float trial balloons during press conferences, and in their shouted questions, how they’ll foreshadow the things that will be in print in the coming days. While there have been insinuations that Tate and I are together, they haven’t been this blatant.
I wanted to be in control of my narrative. Wanted to tell my parents of my decision first.
I ignore the reporter’s question and all others. We’re at the car now, thank God. Remy’s in the driver’s seat and Nat’s on the passenger side.
Tate pulls the back door open, and I slip one foot in.
“Mr. Hastings, do you have any comment on being investigated by the Florida Bar for having an inappropriate relationship with Princess Isabella because she was your client?”
I freeze.
What?
“Get in the car,” Tate hisses, and I do.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I twist to look at Tate, my voice trembling. “Is it even true?”
He lets out a long sigh and covers my hand with his, twining our fingers. “We’ll talk about this back at the house.”
The rest of the drive consists of looking out the window, giving Tate nervous glances, and sweating against his palm.
Throughout this entire absurd legal ordeal, I always assumed I’d eventually walk away, unscathed. That’s what happens to people like me who are privileged, white, and rich. It’s not right, and it’s not fair. But it’s the way of the world (and something I’d like to change).
I knew that eventually, because of my family name or my money, everything would be okay. I never anticipated how this would affect Tate or that it would. Now that the reporter asked the question, my mind swirls with guilt and confusion.
Once we arrive home on Paradise Beach—here I am, already calling it home, which is a little insane in itself—Remy and Nat say hasty goodbyes and jump in Nat’s truck and speed away. They’re obviously aware of the thick tension between Tate and me.
We don’t get but a few steps inside the house when I unleash everything in my brain.
“What’s the Florida Bar? How do they know about us? What’s going to happen to you? Is this bad?”
“Whoa, calm down, Bella.”
I narrow my eyes. “You know that people never calm down when told to calm down.”
He sinks onto the sofa. “The Bar is an association for lawyers. It regulates the profession. Yes, it’s true that they’re doing a preliminary investigation.”
“About what?” I let my purse slide off my arm and onto the island kitchen counter. Then I start pacing.
“About whether you and I started a relationship while I was still representing you.”
I swallow hard. “Oh, God. This could be so bad.”
“Calm…sorry. Don’t worry. Preliminary investigations aren’t uncommon.”
“But they’re probably not common, either.”
He doesn’t respond.
“How did they find out? Did someone tell them?”
He shrugs. “Probably, yes. It could have been anyone. Most likely someone who wants to run for the same office as me, though. A potential political rival.”
My shoulders droop as I sit next to him on the couch. “Really? That would happen this early in a campaign? Someone wants you out that badly?”
“Sure. Why not. Or it could be someone at the Bar
saw a media report and made some assumptions.” He yawns and stretches his arm around me. “I’m not going to worry about it.”
“You seem awfully relaxed for a man who might be disciplined or worse.” I scowl in his direction.
“There’s nothing I can do, babe. And I’m confident I’ll be exonerated. They might not even get past the prelim stage, and I won’t have to do anything. This is just some petty bullshit. So let’s just celebrate. Come here.” He reaches for my shoulder and tries to pull me into his chest, but I wriggle away.
“No. Why didn’t you tell me this had happened?” My mouth goes dry. I’d assumed Tate was an open book. Forthcoming. Honest. “Why did you hide this from me?”
“I found out this morning. Didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be upset during the hearing. I’m not hiding anything. You were amazing during that press conference, you know that?”
Anger bubbles in my chest. “Tate, stop. We need to take this seriously.”
“They can’t prove a thing,” he says. “Please calm…please be cool.”
I jump up and walk quickly into the kitchen. With shaking hands, I grab a glass and pour myself a glass of tap water, then guzzle it. Tate rises and comes into the kitchen.
I set the glass down and scrub my face with my hands. “I’ve made a mess of everything.”
“No, you haven’t. Come here.” He puts his strong arms around me. “We’ll get through this. Don’t worry. All we have to do is make sure you do your community service and pay your fine.”
“But what if they do discipline you? The thought of you getting in professional or legal trouble because of me makes me feel terrible. I don’t think I could live with myself if you suffered consequences because of me. Because of us.”
“We are so far from the discipline phase, Bella baby. Don’t sweat it.”
Of course, I am sweating it. Hard. As Tate holds me, an uneasy fog of fear settles in my chest. What’s going to happen to us in the long-term? Will my royal status forever plague not only me but Tate? What’s going to happen when Mother finds out I’m in love with a commoner?
Selfishly, I hadn’t asked myself any of these questions. For the past few weeks, I’ve stayed with Tate, blissfully playing house. Believing that we’d eventually declare our love and we’d sail along in our joyful bubble.
But the reality is going to be a lot more complicated.
I’ve accepted that regardless of whether I’m a princess, I’ll always be in the public eye. No matter what I do, the media attention will wax and wane, and unless I live by myself on a remote island—or in some hard-to-reach country like Bhutan—I’ll always be newsworthy. As much as I hate it, it’s part of life.
Like mosquitoes. Or annoying USB cables. Or that runny squirt of red liquid from the ketchup bottle, right before the actual substance spurts out.
To ask sweet Tate to deal with that scrutiny for the rest of his life might be a bridge too far.
Twenty-One
Tate
“Babe, it’s going to be okay. Don’t worry so much.”
Bella purses her lips. “Tell me more about your meeting today.”
I kiss her forehead. “It’s my weekly session with potential donors and some folks who want to be part of the campaign. We’re going to discuss the Bar investigation and whether it will interfere with running for office. No decisions will be made today.”
She blinks rapidly, then rolls over with a huff. Her long hair spills into my face. I tug on her shoulder.
“Babe. If I’m not freaking out, you shouldn’t freak out, either.”
“I hate that I did this to you. That I spoiled things.”
“You didn’t spoil anything. Let’s not go over this again. We’ve gone around in circles over this same issue.” I ease onto my back and rub my eyes. It’s entirely too early in the morning to have this discussion again.
“But if we’d never started a physical relationship, it wouldn’t be a problem. I’m ruining your life. Maybe we need to separate for a while during the investigation. Would that help?”
Her voice is muffled into the pillow, and I sit up, a feeling of disbelief flowing through me. “What? Do you want to leave here?”
She flips over. “It’s not that I want to leave. I merely want what will be good for you. I don’t want my bullshit to affect you any more than it already has.”
I fight back a little smile. Even when she says the word bullshit, she sounds formal and adorable. “This is my choice, Bella. Being with you is my choice.”
We pause and study each other. She pulls the covers up to her chin and frowns.
“What do you want? What do I want? Doesn’t that factor in?” I brush a lock of hair out of her face. Is she trying to end things? Somehow, our relationship has gotten out of sync since she found out about the Bar investigation. And she won’t believe me when I tell her I’ve got it under control; she’s been relentless in her questions these past few days.
“I want you to have a normal life,” she says flatly. “I don’t want my crazy existence to affect you any more than it has.”
I shake my head. “I’ll decide what’s too crazy, okay? It’s not like I come from the Brady Bunch. I have a pretty high tolerance for weird.”
She rolls her eyes. “Your family’s weirdness is acceptable and lovely. My family’s weirdness is potentially career-ending and capable of doing you great harm.”
I lean down and kiss the tip of her nose. “And you know what? You’re worth it. Listen, babe. I gotta run. I’m already late. I’ll call you after the meeting and let you know how it went. Now, don’t sit here worrying all morning, okay?”
She nods, anxiety still etched on her pretty face.
Shoving the duvet off my body, I glance over at her. “Promise? No worrying?”
“No worrying. I’ll take Chunky on a walk, then drop him at the tiki bar before I go to the turtle sanctuary at noon.”
“Good girl.”
Still, as I shower, grab a thermos of coffee and drive to my office, something in my gut tells me that Bella isn’t going to hear my plea. She’s going to worry every minute, and I wish I could take her panic away. Being from another country—and not being a lawyer—she doesn’t understand that the Bar investigation is only in a preliminary stage. Chances are it will go nowhere.
At the worst I might get a slap on the wrist, but I’m not anticipating even that. I’ve consulted with attorney friends about my situation and all agree I’m in the clear, that this is just some political blowback, someone trying to dissuade me from running for office. Small town politics crap.
But Bella thinks of everything on a global, catastrophic level, and in her mind, my life’s work is potentially ruined. I have to get her to stop thinking this way. But how?
There could be one thing that will ease her mind and that’s telling her how I feel. I still haven’t said those important words, probably because I thought it was too soon. Hell, we just met six weeks ago.
But you know what? I don’t care. I love this woman. Never felt this way with anyone else. It’s a little scary, sure. Mostly because it’s so intense. And so I’ve hesitated to tell her how I want her permanently in my life so we can face these challenges together.
She needs that reassurance, and maybe saying I love you will do the trick.
I walk into my office, deep in thought. Yeah, I need to clear the air. Tell her what’s in my heart, how much I want her in my life. Let her know that we’re a team and I’m with her no matter what.
Forever.
“Morning, dude,” I mutter at Marianne, barely acknowledging her. Then I stop when I see her quirk an eyebrow. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to call you dude. My head’s in the clouds. Could you make reservations for two at the Square Grouper tonight at sunset? I’d like that private table on the deck.”
Marianne grins. “Will do.”
“Oh. And ask them if they could put a special flower arrangement on the table. Nothing tacky, but something nice. Maybe in whi
te? I’ll pay extra.”
Marianne picks up the phone, and I float into my office, thinking about what I’ll say to Bella tonight. I should focus on the campaign meeting, but instead, I’m wondering if I have time today to buy an engagement ring.
Twenty-Two
Isabella
I pace around Tate’s big house, anxiety gnawing at my stomach, Chunky at my heels. Tate left for work ten minutes ago, and I’m still upset after our exchange this morning.
It’s been a week and a half since my court hearing, and since I discovered the Florida Bar had started an investigation about Tate’s relationship with me. I’d also started my community service at the turtle sanctuary, and that seems to be the only thing going right.
Sighing, I grab my laptop and flop down on the sofa. Chunky looks up at me expectantly.
“Come here, bear prince,” I say, hoisting him up on the sofa. I tuck my feet underneath me, and he nestles against my thighs. “Good boy.”
I haven’t checked my email since yesterday, mostly because I’m avoiding Mother.
She’s been emailing nonstop since the news conference that day outside of the courthouse, wanting to know when I’m planning to return to Montignac.
I don’t know, I keep telling her. And it’s true. I don’t.
It’s not that I want to leave Paradise Beach. I’ve grown to adore it here, mostly because of Tate. But since the day I discovered he was under investigation because of me, things became strained between us. It’s as if there’s an invisible wall separating us.
He’s pulling away. I can feel it.
Oh, sure, we’re still great together in bed. Things have only gotten hotter in that department. In fact, the sex is rawer, more honest. Which only makes everything else more heartbreaking.
Still. I can’t help but think I’m ruining his life, and he’s slowly coming to terms with that fact, possibly only hanging on because of the aforementioned great sex. But being a pity screw is not on my agenda.
